“Good.” Mick smiled. “See, there’s a reason I brought you up here. Dylan. Dylan…a lot has happened in this world, and in Lodi, we survived. A lot has happened in our lives, and you and I survived. I love you. I want you to be my wife. Marry me.”
Dylan’s eyes widened amongst the sentimental sighs of the crowd. “Mick? Why are you proposing in front of all these people?”
“I’m not just proposing in front of these people. I want to marry you in front of these people. Reverend Bower is here, he’ll....”
“Mick,” Dylan cut him off. “What were you thinking?”
“Of getting married.”
“Where did this come from? Why would you put me on the spot like this?”
“The spot?” Mick snickered. “Dylan, yesterday in your kitchen you said....”
“I said nothing about marriage.” Dylan stared seriously at him. “Nothing. I’m not marrying you, Mick. I’m not.” Turning and saying no more, arms folded, Dylan stormed from the stage.
Mick’s eyes went from Dylan, to the microphone, then to the crowd. He stood there in silence, then he handed the microphone to Dexter. “Play something.” Microphone barely from his hand, Mick started to leave the stage. He paused only briefly when Dexter and the boys started to play ‘Love Hurts’.
* * *
It took all of his energy, and a lot of straining, but Jeff got the cough to produce enough sputum to free up his air passages. “That felt better.” He set down his spitting cup filled with the thick brown phlegm. “Darrell.”
Weakly, Darrell lifted his head. “They’re playing AC/DC again.”
“Sucks,” Jeff coughed. “They’re having a good time....” He paused to cough violently. “And we’re sick.”
Darrell could barely open his eyes. “You don’t think that doctor was right, do you? Do you think we have the flu?”
“No. We beat the flu....” Jeff’s eyes started to close. “It’s allergies.”
* * *
The clink of the chain and the creak of the old swing set carried to Mick as he walked into Dylan’s backyard. He could see her on the old set that was originally purchased for Dustin. Her back was to him and she glided slowly back and forth.
“Hey,” he spoke softly, walking up to her. “How come you came home?”
“I didn’t think it was a good idea to stay,” Dylan answered
“I ruined your good time, huh?” Mick crouched down before her.
“No,” she whispered.
“Are you mad at me?” Mick asked.
“No. Are you mad at me?”
“Why would I be mad at you?”
“Because I turned you down. Because I....” Dylan played with the links of the chain. “Because I embarrassed you.”
“I knew there was a possibility of you turning me down. It was a chance I took. And as far as embarrassing me goes. I’m not. Embarrassment is not turning me down. Embarrassment is the whole town knowing you had oral sex with Eunice Bender.”
Dylan quickly looked at him.
“Not me,” Mick lifted his hand.
“Then if you aren’t mad, or embarrassed, you feel bad.”
Mick nodded. “Yeah. I feel bad. Of course I do, you don’t want to marry me.”
“I do, Mick. Just not there. Not at that moment. Understand?”
“Really?” Mick smiled.
“Why do you look happy?”
“Because I am. Look....” He reached into his pocket. “I bought wedding rings. You know how cheap I am,” he tried to joke. “So you really will marry me?”
Dylan nodded. “If you still want to.”
“Absolutely.” Mick kissed her.
“I’m sorry...I’m sorry you failed tonight, Mick.”
“I didn’t fail. You said you’ll marry me. It doesn’t matter if I have to wait or not. I got your word,” Mick said. “I’ve been waiting my whole life to marry you, Dylan. You just said ‘yes’. I didn’t fail tonight at all.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
September 27th
The air in the trailer smelled like recently released bodily functions rather than stale death. And that told Lars that the FBI agents, Darrell and Jeff, had not long before met their deaths.
It was a typical death scene of the flu. Both men in beds, covers thrown half from them, sheets laced with blood, a visual display of violent demise.
He debated on whether to order the bodies removed from the trailer or to just let them go. The trailers, like everything else associated with fighting the flu, would see a flame within a few days. Feeling just a little guilty for not stopping by the previous day because of the festival, Lars started to leave the back bedroom.
He pushed aside the curtain and froze with revelation.
Like a tidal wave, the rush of anxiety-riddled blood filled his ears and Lars spun around as if searching for something.
“Oh my God.” He frantically raced about the trailer, panicked.
Getting his bearings together and calming down, Lars did another sweep of the trailer. Releasing yet, another ‘Oh my God’, he flew to the front door and flung it open.
Sgt. Dion stood there. “Everything all right, sir?” he asked.
“No,” Lars shook his head seemingly dazed. “No, it’s not.” With those words and a look of hysteria, Lars took off running.
* * *
His own home. His own bed. His own shower. And everything was clean, too. Mick was impressed with how well his mother had progressed over the years in handling her sloppiness.
It felt good to use his big bathroom and huge shower. It felt even better to sleep in his bed with–and Mick smiled at the thought–his wife.
Dylan married him.
It wasn’t much, shortly after midnight, in the church. The boys, Dylan’s parents, Rose, Lars, and Patrick were there for the “I do’s”. It was a small, short ceremony, but they got married.
Mick swore it was his single proudest accomplishment. For as long as he could remember, like an obsessed stalker, the entire emotional makeup of his soul was dedicated to being with Dylan. And the words “for the rest of our lives” were, for Mick, etched in stone, official, and whether Dylan liked it or not, he was never giving her up. Ever.
Adding the final touch to his Levis uniform, which consisted of his shoulder harness, Mick stared at Dylan sleeping in his bed.
He wished the wedding night could have been somewhere else. He wished they could have had a honeymoon. Disney World, perhaps; the boys would have liked that. But in Mick’s mind, someday they’d get around to it.
Mick wanted to let her sleep while he slipped out, but he couldn’t do that. All through his shower and coffee he had thought about the first morning. The first ‘face to face’ reaction to what had happened. He fantasized about the moment that he and Dylan gazed upon each other as husband and wife, a moment that he saw so much like a scene from a Lars Rayburn romance novel.
Thinking that he caught a glimpse of movement, Mick walked over to the side of the bed where he faced Dylan lying on her side. He crouched down quietly and ran his fingers lightly over her forehead, moving her hair out of her eyes. “Hey,” he said quietly.
Dylan groggily opened her eyes; they rolled slightly out of control before focusing. “Hey.”
“I’ve been, uh...waiting to say this.” He kissed her softly, smiled and spoke in a suavely romantic way. “Good morning, Mrs. Owens.”
The corner of Dylan’s mouth lifted as she stared at him, and then she laughed, grabbing her pillow. “Oh my God, are you corny.” She covered her face with the pillow and rolled the other way. “Go to work, Mick.”
“Hey.” He pulled the pillow from her. “Aren’t you gonna say, ‘Good morning, Mr. Owens.’”
“No!” Dylan snapped. “Go to work.”
“Now, that isn’t right. We’re supposed to be in awe of the fact we were married last night.”
“God, Mick.” Dylan looked over her shoulder at him.
“Come on, Dylan. Give this t
o me.”
For a few seconds Dylan looked at him then, as she rolled back over, she mumbled. “Morning, Mr. Owens.”
“What was that?”
“Go to work.”
With a “ha”, Mick leaned down and kissed her cheek. “You might want to get up and go home.” He smacked her backside before he walked across the room. “My mom is watching the boys. I grew up with her behavior over breakfast.”
Hearing the bedroom door close, and thinking “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Dylan pulled the covers up further, figured Mick was being really weird, and she went back to sleep.
* * *
Mick knew it was going to be a great day. The festival clean-up was underway. People were upbeat, and they had good reason. Flu-free. Lodi had made it. Amongst a group of people doing tear-down work, Mick paused just as he stepped into Central Park. He took a moment to look around and listen to the sounds, then he stuck a cigarette into his mouth. Striking the match while blocking the wind, Mick lit it. As he shook out the flame, he felt a hand grasp his shoulder
“I’m sorry, Mick.” Lars grabbed both of Mick’s shoulders as if trying to hold himself up.
“What’s wrong?” Mick asked.
“Nothing.” Lars shook his head. “Well, no, yes. We’ll see. Nothing.”
“Lars?”
“Have you seen Patrick?” Lars asked with a hint of a frazzled tone. “I need his help.”
“He’s probably still at home.”
“Thanks.” Lars started to take off.
“Whoa.” Mick reached out. “Something is wrong. What is it?”
“Nothing really, just probably my writer’s imagination going overboard.” Lars began to walk backwards. “I’ll keep you posted.” With a turn, Lars ran off.
“Keep me posted about what!” Mick shouted after the running man. With a grunt, Mick tossed out his hands in defeat, realized he wasn’t getting any answers, then shrugged off the incident. He wasn’t going to let an eccentric best-selling romance writer/scientist ruin what was turning into a great day.
* * *
No one could argue the fact that breakfast didn’t consist of the four food groups lumped together on one plate. Chris knew that for sure. Tigger looked like he was raring to dig into it. Dustin stared at his breakfast, prepared by Rose, in debate. But Chris debated it and decided it was indeed a balanced meal. And not a single person could ever accuse Rose Owens of not being inventive when she prepared that toasted cheese sandwich with fried hot dogs and pickles. After a shrug, a churn of his hungry stomach, and a huge squeeze of mustard, Chris dug in.
“Pretty good.” He nodded then noticed the stare Dustin gave him. “What’s wrong?”
“You’re foul.” Dustin shook his head at Chris’ mustard-covered pudgy fingers. When Chris bit into his sandwich, everything flew out the back.
“What?” Chris, confused, took another bite.
Tigger picked apart his sandwich. He liked the hot dog part. “Rose, when’s my mom coming home?”
“Soon. Why?” Rose asked. “Don’t like hanging out with me?”
“No. I mean, I do,” Tigger said. “It’s just that I was wondering when she’s coming home.”
Chris paused in devouring his “breakfast” sandwich. “It’s kind of sad.”
Rose swung a jaundiced look his way. “What is? Me being here?”
“Mom and Mick getting married,” Chris stated then realized what he was implying. “No,” he quickly corrected. “I don’t mean about them getting married. I mean about Mick. I mean....” The smack to the back of his head made Chris shriek loudly and jump up and dive onto his brother.
“Hey!” Rose yelled. “Knock it off.” She reached across the table. “What is wrong with you?”
“Why’d ya hit me?” Chris barked at Dustin.
“Why’d ya say that?”
“Why’d ya hit me?”
“Why’d ya say that?”
“Enough,” Rose snapped.
“You’re rude. That’s her son,” Dustin instructed. “Saying you don’t want Mick marrying Mom.”
“That ain’t what I was saying,” Chris defended. “I’m worried. I like Mick. I like him a lot. He’s been around us all our lives. He ain’t never went anywhere. What if Mom is, like, cursed with husbands? And now that Mick has gone and married her, he’ll leave.”
“Didn’t Mick tell you he wouldn’t?” Dustin asked. “Now believe him, or I’m telling.”
“Chris,” Rose took on an explaining motherly tone. “Why would you say your mother is cursed with husbands? Your mom and dad may have had their ups and downs, but they were together for a very long time. They had you boys. They did good. Your mom’s not cursed. At least I hope to God she’s not.”
Tigger looked innocently at Rose. “Is that why my mom didn’t stay here last night? In case her curse is here?”
Chris answered, “No. It was so her and Mick could have sex.”
Dustin winced and whined. “Aw, now, see. Why would you say that? I don’t want to have that in my head when Mom walks in the door.”
“Don’t you worry.” Rose patted Dustin’s hand. “That was the last thing they were doing last night.” She saw the look that Dustin gave that all but said, ‘yeah right’. “I’m serious. Wait until you get that age. There’s a span of life where folks don’t have sex anymore.”
“Are you serious?” Dustin asked. “Really?”
“Oh, yeah.” Rose nodded. “Between the ages of twenty-five and sixty, people have no desire. They don’t do that stuff.”
“No one told me this before,” Dustin said.
“That’s because it’s a depressing thought.” Rose shrugged. “To know that one day you’re enjoying it, the next, it makes you nauseous to think about it. They probably played Scrabble or something.”
As if he were in school, Chris raised his hand. “And it comes back at sixty?”
“Oh, it comes back in a vengeance,” Rose nodded. “All those years plow you over. Yep. Anyone over the age of sixty is getting it.”
“Even Dexter?” Chris asked.
“Dexter more so than anyone,” Rose said. “That old man Dexter probably gets more pussy than a rich horny man in a whorehouse....” She looked up. “Oh, morning, Dylan.”
At that instant, standing in the kitchen doorway with her mouth hanging open, Dylan realized what Mick meant when he commented about breakfast with Rose.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The festival seemed to be the starting gate to a race that sent the residents onto the track of normalcy. The little corner tavern that usually housed only Lars, Mick, Patrick and a few others, was packed, too packed and too noisy for Lars. The people chattered, laughed and yelled. As if the live music of the night before wasn’t enough, the jukebox blared tunes from the big hair era. Rubbing his temples, his elbows on the table, Lars tried, but he couldn’t think.
In his peripheral vision he saw the two glasses set before him. Patrick started to pour whiskey. Holding up his hand, Lars stopped him. “None for me. You shouldn’t be drinking either.”
“It’s over.”
His hands slammed onto the table, and Lars, usually lighthearted, was heavy with sorrow. “It is not over. You know that and I know that.”
“We looked.”
“We must look again.”
“No.” Patrick shook his head. “I have to disagree. It’s your paranoia. Lars, I want all bases covered as well. But going insane over it isn’t going to do any good.”
“And pretending it doesn’t exist isn’t going to do any good either. My friend....” Lars reached over and firmly gripped Patrick’s wrist, “if there is a stone unturned, we must turn it. If we looked, we must look again. We have to know. We have to stay ahead of this thing. Elimination is the only assurance. I’m not stopping.”
“Ok.” Patrick downed his drink. “I won’t stop either.”
Lars smiled. “Let’s go.” He stood up.
“Right behind you.” Patr
ick started to follow but stopped. He returned to the table, poured a little more alcohol in the glass, and downed it. He had been at it for hours with Lars, and he knew that was only the beginning. But, Patrick admitted to himself that he went back for that drink because he needed it. Not for the long search ahead, but rather for fear of what they could find.
* * *
Reston, Virginia
Henry never realized how strong his faith was or how deep his religious upbringing ran until he faced it in his dark office counting the hours to morning, a morning that was still so far away.
Of all those Sundays he spent in church, Henry wished for the moments back when he didn’t pay attention. Perhaps it was one of those moments that the priest said something that would be so appropriate for the occasion he faced.
A lot had happened in the past month when he first began his crusade against the flu. Henry did pray at the beginning, but he felt that maybe his prayers were ignored because it was such a hopeless state of affairs. But there was hope in the situation at hand for which he prayed; he felt it, even if it were just an inkling of hope. And toward that tiny morsel of hope he gave his whole heart and soul in prayer.
Henry’s car was never without those rosary beads he had forgotten how to use. His desk was never without the bible he hadn’t opened in years. But there he sat, rosary beads in hand, bible across his lap. It took him a while; he called upon his Catholic upbringing to recall the prayer sequence of those rosary beads. Was it ten Hail Marys and three Our Fathers? Was it ten Our Fathers, one Hail Mary, and three Glory Be’s? Henry didn’t know, and he certainly didn’t remember that prayer that was said at the end. He did his best, and prayed the rosary in his own way.
The Flu (A Novel of the Outbreak) Page 26
